


Kr(e)is(e)

by solitariusvirtus



Series: AU! Concepts [15]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 13:37:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20341000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: A beginning, a middle and an end. Shockingly, they are much alike.





	Kr(e)is(e)

“You are still just a bastard.” Jon looks down at the tiny woman whose eyes have yet to leave the wool she knits with such care. “Harrenhal or not, you will always be a bastard.” She is not wrong; but he knows she is not delivering judgement either. He cannot quite manage the cross look he thought to pin her with. “If you want my advice, wed that aunt of yours. She wants the throne enough to take any allies.” She glances up then, mischief in her gaze. “Even you might ingratiate yourself to her.”

“What would you know of such matters?” Jon half-teases, leaning back against the wall as he contemplates her suggestion. Easy prey does not mean an indisputable win, but it is one step closer. Lyanna blinks gently, her lips twisting in a delicate frown.

“Enough that I should not gouge her eyes out if you truly wished to go through with it.” She puts her needles away. He breathes a sigh of relief when she turns towards the middle lancet, her move to avoid him made more obvious by the fact she has taken up fiddling with a bit of her girdle. “Well, not right away, that is. I would wait for her to take the throne.”

The glower she sports does not let up for even one moment as he backs her into the corner of the chamber trapping her with his own body. “I have no great armies,” she warns, foiling his first attempt at taking her lips. Jon nods, moving so as to better grip her. “I do not bring riches,” she points out in yet another attempt to drive him away. He pushes the protest away. “Jon, I cannot smooth your path to the throne.”

He pauses, unsurprised to catch a glimpse of disappointment in her eyes. “There will always be men willing to fight for a cause.” Her girdle sails over his shoulder. “Believe it or not, my lady mother was a dab hand with coin.” The side laces of her kyrtle loosen. “I am not interested in a hollow triumph besides.” She can feel the fur of the garment’s collar brush against her shoulders as it slides down.

“What will you do?” The sweetness of wine lingers on her breath.

“Pick my battles.” For the time being he means to win the current skirmish and what better way to do so than to render his opponent speechless. She falls without much fuss.

“You do not understand.” Gazing into a sea of blackness she wonders at the absence of stars. Even without seeing she can feel him move behind her the very air hums with the shift in their relative position. The world is turning, the wind is blowing and the weavers of fate spin their yarn ever so deftly. “Brandon would never allow me to continue.”

“As well he should not.” She thinks back on his awed expression at the tourney and considers shocking him a second time. “You are placing yourself in a position of great peril; what do you believe should have happened had you not stumbled upon me?”

“It did not happen.” Yet she does resemble her lady mother a great deal. “Do not ask me to abandon this, Your Grace. I will leave come daybreak whatever your feelings upon the matter.” Waves of heat crash into her and she trembles involuntarily as the scent of danger fills her lungs.

“Do not think to get too far if you do; your brother shall not be long in appearing, I promise you.” She considers the threat with utmost seriousness. Lyanna nods. A wolf hunted by wolves. She smiles and gives another nod. 

Rhaegar holds the skin to her lips, aware that a small rivulet of wine runs down her chin. He would wipe away at it if only the slightest touch did not hurt her so. She cries at the slightest jolt and even swallowing seems to produce a word of pain. He gives her more wine, cursing its weakness. Still, there is no milk of the poppy to be had and even a slow dulling of her senses is a blessing.

He pulls the knife out only after she had exhausted herself into a restless sleep. The dead skin is easy to cut through. More difficult is the corrupted flesh beneath; black flecks dot the raw mess of muscle beneath. She whimpers through the veil of slumber. The grasp of wine will not hold her forever. He continues exercising his blade, doing his best in spite of the limitations cast upon them both.

When next she wakes, her laboured breathing fills his ears. Lyanna does not open her eyes. But she speaks. “You should leave.”

“When comes the time.” It does no good to argue; not on this point at least. “Sleep. We move out soon.”

He can only hope they leave the misery and rot behind when they do. 

Lyarra brushes her fingers through her daughter’s hair and laughs at the sight of her second born wrestling with one of his sire’s hounds. This particular bitch is a gentle soul, most affectionate towards children and with a knack for play. Currently, she wags her tail while leaving slobbery trails upon her child’s face. Ned himself jestingly fights the beast, making a show of his struggles. In the end he breaks down and calls upon his sister for aid, which delights Lyanna. She allows her daughter to throw herself in unladylike fashion upon the rug so as to better tackle the hound.

The three of them play together, ignorant of a most important arrival. The master of the household watches the unfolding scene with some exasperation, calling to both children and four-legged children of his heart. “How are we to leave for Essos with an easy heart and put the care of the keep in your hands?”

She knows her face shows surprise. Lyarra stands, moving by the trio on the rugs. “I thought you meant to refuse Lord Steffon.”

“He is better suited to court than to travel,” her husband answers. “Come, let us speak as we must.” He holds out his hand and she takes it. 

Blood pools at her feet. Lyarra holds Rickard’s head in her lap, her sobs having quietened to gentle sniffles. He is not yet gone but it is not a far thing; she can tell. Ever so softly, she strokes him, her fingers tangles in the dusty strands of his hair. She wishes she could do more. Weakly, he opens his eyes, their blue glassy and cruel, lacking the usual mirth. “Live.” His voice is thinned by pain and fatigue. “Whatever comes.” She wants to refuse. But how can she?

Instead, Lyarra purses her lips and tells him to save his strength. A world without Rickard; she knows she would have had to face it one day. But not like this. She had always hoped it would be surrounded by loving family, in their home, with all the comfortable reminders she could ever wish for.

Fresh tears rain down on an ashen face and she struggles to keep her grief quiet. She doesn’t manage it and in his last moments Rickard does as he has always done. The steady rock turns to sand and she is cast adrift. Panic grips her tightly, her fingers lace about her husband’s wrist. 

He grows cold in her embrace. 


End file.
